I was a super cranky baby…and then a cranky kid. (I’m kind of a cranky adult, too, but that’s a different story.) My mom soon discovered that I was usually just getting irritable when my blood sugar was low, and she started packing snacks all the time in case I got fussy in public. She wasn't wrong, but this practice created a cycle of "Upset? Eat!" that would breed nothing but an unhealthy attitude towards food.

The first time I can remember being insecure about my body was at my aunt’s house in the summer. She had a lake in her backyard and a little pool, too. I don’t remember that trip or how old I was, but I remember my round tummy and thinking that nobody’s supposed to look like that unless they’re pregnant. I couldn’t have been very old, but I knew what many girls at that age know to be a rule: girls are supposed to be skinny.

That ‘tummy’ stayed with me for a while. Up until middle school, surely, and puberty didn’t exactly help anything. Sixth grade, though—that was when I started dancing with the high schoolers in the advanced classes. It was a big deal, and I was super shy and quiet. But I could dance at least, and as long as I had that, I told myself I would be okay.

The years went on and I became a better dancer. The better a dancer I became, though, the more pressure I imagined pressing on my shoulders. Another year in middle school I remember trying on costumes for the opening number with the upperclassmen. Size small, size small, size small, size medium…and then there was me: size large. I was absolutely mortified; that was the last straw.

A couple of years went by. I lost some weight, gained quite a bit of weight, got better at dancing, suffered through the well-meaning “happy dance” one of my dance instructors would do every time I screwed up in class. I wasn’t a very happy person.

This isn’t a tragedy. Miraculously, thankfully—I’m fine. After those rough couple of years, during which I went through something like an intense obsession but that I wouldn’t classify as any specific “eating disorder” (though I definitely had a disordered relationship with eating), I found my way. I made a couple of very good friends and relearned, very slowly and through much trial-and-error, what normal eating looks like. Of course, slip-ups never went away, but that’s part of life. Sometimes I eat more than anyone else at the table. Other times I count my calories and scrutinize my plate. Sometimes slip-ups last for five minutes and other times they last for two days. Overall, though, I’m fine, better than I used to be at least.

It’s been said a million times before, but eating disorder recovery isn’t the same as being a recovering alcoholic. You can live the rest of your life without touching a drop of booze, though it may be hard at times and there will be temptation. You can’t quit food cold turkey (excuse the pun). Food is something you have to learn to live with.

These days it’s harder for me to get caught up in those kinds of habits due to some chronic health problems. I was finally forced to view food as fuel and these days I mostly just give my body whatever will make it hate me the least. In my darker moments I sometimes convince myself that my health problems were at least partially caused by my abhorrent treatment of my body throughout my teenage years. It might not be true, but it might be. It probably doesn’t matter.

Nevertheless, my body’s demands aren’t a foolproof plan. I was so incredibly excited to come back to college as a junior this year because I would finally get a single room—my own space. But that also brought with it a slight terror; I would be completely on my own, in my own space with my own food. It was almost a recipe for disaster. This isn’t to say that my roommate the past two years was keeping track of what I was and wasn’t eating, but I was always worried enough about them noticing my more unpleasant eating habits that I could trick myself into “eating normally.” Again, it was all a mind game I played with myself, but it got the job done most of the time.

This year, I have none of that.

And you know what? I’m doing pretty well.

If I could talk to my fifteen-year-old self, she would be so incredibly confused. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t fathom letting this obsession go, when I couldn’t remember what “normal eating” looked like beyond copying the people around me. Don’t be fooled: my body isn’t perfect, and neither is my body image or my food habits, but it’s not the focus of my life anymore. That’s overwhelming to think about. I became a writer, got accepted to college, moved to New York, made it to my 21st birthday, and only dance recreationally now. I also have a mini fridge full of food in my room, and I eat about three meals a day. I manage a food plan by myself and don’t cry every time I make a mistake. I still have fuzzy hair and my glasses and that round tummy sometimes. And sometimes I glare at it. Sometimes I feel beautiful. Graceful, once in a blue moon. Happy, intermittently.

My advice isn’t “it gets better,” but if you’re in that place where you think this is just who you are now, this is all you are, whatever label or obsession it may be—it’s not. People change all the time; even the worst character ever written isn’t that one-dimensional. You’ll meet people or find things that are worth putting up with the shit for. You’ll learn to travel, or to sing, or to adopt cats, and things will still be horrible sometimes, but instead of it dominating your life, it’ll be just another part of your day, eventually.